


Mess me up, tear me down

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was, in retrospect, one of the worst ideas to come tripping half-formed out Scott’s brain, which was saying something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mess me up, tear me down

**Author's Note:**

> I basically ignored huge parts of Season 3 Ep 4, while simultaneously dropping in spoilers. This is how NOT to do fanfic -- ignore everything that doesn’t have to do with getting Stiles and Derek to do it. My beta doesn’t read sex scenes, so there’s probably 100% more typos around that area. Feel free to point them out.
> 
> Thanks so much to sapphire2309 for reading this even though she doesn't watch Teen Wolf and was all, Kanima? Druids? What the shit are you talking about?
> 
> Uh, underage. This is set somewhere in the nebulous but close future, which I guess makes Stiles 17-ish.

It was, in retrospect, one of the worst ideas to come tripping half-formed out Scott’s brain, which was saying something. 

Scott had ideas like deliberately pissing off the already terrifying Alphas, and breaking into a bank vault without knowing what it was made of, how it was guarded and -- oh, Stiles’ personal favorite -- punching through the wall, which was actually Derek’s idea, but the two of them laying out a plan was like putting gunpowder and matches together and hoping really hard that bad things didn’t happen.

Bad things did happen. They always do. 

Which is how Stiles ended up being druid bait.

 

\---

 

Stiles throws himself into the car face first as Derek peels away from the curb, his legs still dangling out of the door. 

He grabs a handful of upholstery, closes his eyes, and hangs on, his life flashing before his eyes. Oh god, he’s going to die a virgin. How the hell did this become his life -- he’s faced down a Kanima and a pack of angry Alphas, but he’s going to die because Derek’s a _shitty driver_. 

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek breathes, grabs a fistful of Stile’s hoodie and hauls him into the seat. 

Stiles manages to scramble upright and close the passenger door, before slumping down in his seat and willing his knees to stop shaking. 

“God,” Stiles says through chattering teeth. “I - uh, everything did not go as planned, ha ha. To say the least. I nearly fell out of the car.”

His thoughts are disjointed, rambling, and Stiles knows he’s going to be embarrassed about this in about twenty minutes. He just can’t keep seem to _make his mouth stop_. “I almost died a virgin, which is totally unfair because I also could have died because I’m a virgin. Oh god, oh god.”

“Told Scott this was a stupid idea--”

“All of Scott’s ideas are kind of terrible,” Stiles says, and holds up a hand to keep Derek from talking, “and don’t _you_ say anything, because honestly? Your ideas are almost always worse.” 

Derek looks over at him and blinks, like he’s surprised, which is absurd. Stiles has noticed how bad luck seems to follow Derek like a dark cloud. Never mind catching a break, Derek’s never been able to catch a fucking breath. But that doesn’t excuse the plan that ended up with Stiles being human bait, accidentally running into the Alphas, hitting one over the head with a fucking cinderblock and then diving into Derek’s car. 

Scott just has this way about him -- he’s all eyes and earnestness and _Stiles, you don’t want everyone in Beacon Hills to die, do you?_ And what would be the correct answer -- _no, but I’m not entirely sure I want to die in their place?_

The thing is, knowledge goes hand in hand with responsibility. What most people miss is that having all that knowledge mostly sucks, and leaves you with a bunch of informed but equally awful choices to make. 

He hit one of the Alpha Pack’s version of the Winklevoss twins, and didn’t even check to see if he was still alive. Stiles remembers the crunch of his skull, the blood pooling from his head, nearly black in the dark, sticky and sickeningly strong-smelling.

“Stiles,” Derek says, “I’m taking you home. I’ll call if anything else happens.”

Stiles’ eyes, which had slipped shut on the drive, to the soothing sound of Derek’s car eating up the road, fly open. “Fuck that -- I’m staying with you. What if Scott calls? What if you need me?”

Derek’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. “You can’t help any more. You nearly got killed trying to help this time. Let us handle this.”

“I see, leave this to the supernatural beings, ‘cause I’m too frail and human to help. If I recall, being frail and human was a plus earlier.”

Derek snorts inelegantly. “I think we’ve established it was stupid idea.”

Stiles can feel his jaw working, back teeth grinding together angrily and he wills himself to stop. The last thing he needs is to have to start wearing his mouth guard to sleep at night again. 

“You might need me,” Stiles insists, but he knows he’s already lost the argument. He can see it in the thin set of Derek’s lips. He can feel it in the bone-deep weariness clawing at him, the same way he knew that dangling himself like a tasty gift-wrapped human sacrifice was a bad idea, but he did it anyway, pressed forward, in order to -- what? Feel useful? 

Save people, Stiles guesses. He’d rather put his life on the line than put people in danger that don’t know his name, that don’t even bother to talk to him in school. 

It’s possible he has some issues.

Stiles looks over at Derek, the streetlights flashing, brief bursts of light that illuminate Derek’s face as quickly as they cast him into shadow.

There’s blood at the corner of his mouth, trickling out of his right ear, and Stiles wonders, not for the first time, what happened that Derek’s not talking about. 

All these secrets and unsaid things are going to get them killed, Stiles thinks tiredly.

“What’s it like to heal so quickly?” Stiles asks, unthinkingly placing his hand flat against Derek’s stomach, fully prepared for Derek to snap at him, push his hand away with more force than strictly necessary, but Derek takes a deep, pained breath instead.

Derek hesitates, then says quietly, “It hurts, sometimes, where it should, even though there’s no -- there’s nothing there anymore.”

“Sounds kind of like phantom pain,” Stiles says, for lack of anything better to say. He’d had a couple of witty rejoinders planned, hovering on the tip of his tongue, completely ready for sarcasm. Honesty’s something new, unsettling. His hand tingles where it touches Derek and Stiles pulls back his hand reflexively and stares down at it, curling his fingers around empty air. 

Stiles doesn’t know what keeps Derek going, what makes him get up and fight when he knows he’s losing. There’s a viciousness to it, a trapped animal unwillingness to lay down and die. It’s feral, nasty, and Stiles thinks it says a lot more about Derek than anything to do with being part wolf.

“Go home, Stiles,” Derek says, pulling up in front of Stiles’ house, like he’s his alpha or, worse yet, like Stiles is just some stupid kid.

“Fuck you,” Stiles manages, furious, embarrassed, trying not to think about the relief in Derek’s eyes as he slams the car door behind him.

 

\---

 

Later, at his house, Stiles looks in the mirror, at the long scrape that swoops down his left cheek. He tilts his head to follow the mark down to his neck and catches his own eye in the reflection, something unnamable moving behind his eyes, hard, unfamiliar. 

He grins and bares his teeth.

 

\---

 

The sound of his dad tiredly shuffling around the kitchen filters up to his room, probably because Stiles is sitting on the edge of his bed in the dark, completely still, has been for hours like an utter creep. 

He keeps thinking about getting up, saying something to his dad as he hears the sound of the fridge opening, the beep of the microwave, but he can’t imagine what he’d say. 

Stiles doesn’t know how to explain the scrapes on his face, the stiff way he moves, and he can’t face his dad’s look of disappointment that he’s gotten into trouble again, won’t keep out of police investigation. He doesn’t know how to explain that he could have nearly killed someone tonight and he doesn’t really feel bad about it at all, not nearly as much as he probably should.

He makes a fist, unclenches it, then stands up. He opens the window and slips out.

 

\---

 

There’s nothing like showing up unannounced at Derek’s place at 2 am, but if Derek’s surprised, he doesn’t show it.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Stiles mumbles by way of explanation. He’d thought about stopping by Scott’s, but Scott always does what’s right, not what situations sometimes call for, and Derek -- well, maybe Derek will understand.

“It’s the adrenaline,” Derek says. “You’ll crash soon.”

“I have had some experience in this,” Stiles says, vaguely insulted. After all, he’s been in how many horrifying situations now? More than a few, less than enough to make him give up completely. Stiles doesn’t really sleep well anymore. 

Sitting on the couch, he rubs a hand over his face tiredly. “God, I need a beer.”

“You’re too young to drink,” Derek says absently, like he doesn’t even really believe what he’s saying.

Stiles tries to shoot him a look that says _bitch, please, I almost died again_ , but he thinks it ends up looking pretty pathetic because Derek sighs and gets him a beer anyway.

Derek sinks into the couch beside him, opening his own beer and taking a long pull. 

“Why drink if it doesn’t affect you?” Stile asks inanely. He’ll say anything to keep himself from thinking about anything too important.

“I like the taste.”

“You’re a strange man, Derek Hale,” Stiles says, voice low and soft to his own ears.

Derek quirks an eyebrow. He holds the bottle up and Stiles clicks the necks of their bottles together obligingly. 

“What do you think is going to happen with the Alpha Pack?” Stiles asks.

“They’ll likely kill us all,” Derek says.

“I suspected as much,” Stiles tells him.

 

\---

 

Stiles falls asleep on the couch. Sometime during the night, Derek covers him with a blanket.

 

\---

 

It becomes a habit to go to Derek’s on the nights his muscles are tense, when his skin itches, pulled too tight, when his mind continues to whirl even after he tries to settle in.

He sneaks out his window and Derek wordlessly lets him in. 

 

\---

 

“I’ve been thinking about getting a gun,” Stiles says, staring out the large windows that cover half the wall, rain slapping against the panes rhythmically, fat drops that make the city blur outside, the colors running together, gray and indistinct. Stiles adds, “I can probably get one from Allison.” 

Stiles hasn’t brought it up with Scott, because Scott wouldn’t understand; for all the awful situations he’s been in, Scott’s never well and truly felt helpless. He hasn’t actually shared his thoughts with anyone except Derek because, of all people, Derek may be the only person that gets how deep in the shit they are, how hopelessly out of their depth. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re going to accidentally shoot your nuts off.”

“That is,” Stiles says, “a distinct and terrible possibility.”

Derek smiles a bit at that, and Stiles has to do a double-take because he’s seen Derek smile, but never at him. His chest tightens, his neck and cheeks warm, and he feels himself grin back.

“So I’ll rethink the gun thing,” Stiles says eventually, still not breaking eye contact with Derek. 

“That’s probably wise,” Derek says. 

Stiles tries not to think about how close Derek is, how good he smells. Derek can probably hear his heart speed up, which is hideously unfair because people should be allowed to have secrets, especially sex secrets. 

Derek eyeballs him like he knows that Stiles is having dirty thoughts about his zesty body. 

Derek clears his throat and says, “I thought -- fuck, I don’t know what I thought. I was pretty sure you were going to die, you know, the other night.”

“I was pretty sure of that, too,” Stiles says honestly.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Derek says lamely, looking frustrated with himself. 

“That’s pretty much a declaration of love from you, isn’t it?” Stiles asks, exasperated and unsettlingly fond.

Derek’s lips curl at the corners, rueful and a little -- shy, maybe. It’s an expression so out of character that Stiles has a hard time placing it at first.

Well, fuck it, Stiles thinks. The meek may inherit the earth, but he’s not sure he’s going to make it to his eighteenth birthday, let alone live long enough to inherit anything.

He leans forward, painfully slow, until Derek’s eyes are all he can see: wide green pupils around a narrow band of reddish-brown, framed by dark eyelashes, above lips that, oh fuck, are still smiling and getting closer by the second. 

And then he’s kissing Derek and Derek tilts his head to deepen the kiss and Stiles presses forward, swipes his tongue into Derek’s mouth. 

His hands run up Derek’s neck, slide into his hair, soft beneath some kind of sticky product. Stiles wants to see him style his hair, wants to see what he does in the mornings, wants -- he wants everything, pretty much. And isn’t that the problem with him? He’s always wanted too much and expected nothing in return.

The kiss isn’t a revelation, fireworks behind his eyes; it’s all awkward anticipation, a little dry, just the warm heat of lips against his. It’s slow, electric, a build-up of want beneath his skin, his chest, the tips of his fingers, skittering timidly across those sharp cheekbones.

Stiles wants to pull Derek down on top of him, have Derek kiss him all over, taste the salt of his skin. 

They undress quickly, hastily, Stiles’ fingers tangle in his shirt, tremble over his fly, while his mind ping-pongs like a game, too scattered and fast to follow -- _Is this happening_ and _Oh my god, Derek looks good naked_.

He gets Derek’s pants to his knees and they’re so unholy fucking tight that Stiles gets tired of pawing fruitlessly at them and leaves them bunched down around his thighs. 

Derek huffs a laugh into his mouth, which turns into a gasp, then a long drawn-out obscene moan as Stiles wraps a hand around his cock. Stiles’ mind is a little blown that he can wrench these kind of sounds from Derek because in his head, Stiles is kind of a nerd, and Derek’s so out of his league, it’s laughable, except Derek’s pressing him into the mattress and kicking off his pants before settling in between Stiles’ knees and holy shit, they’re going to do it. 

Derek blows him lazily while pressing slicked fingers into him. Stiles grits his teeth against the intrusion, relaxing in increments as Derek’s mouth works on him. 

When Derek asks him if he’s ready, Stiles whines low in his throat, makes all kinds of sounds that he’s sure he’ll be embarrassed about in the morning, but he can’t bring himself to care about now because Derek’s entering him slowly, raining down soft kisses over his cheeks, his neck. 

Stiles breathes deep through his nose, hands fisted in the sheets, until Derek’s in him completely, panting wetly into his ear. As Derek begins to move, Stiles curses softly, bites at Derek’s shoulder, licks wet trails over his jaw and kisses deep, until Derek adjusts his hips and sweet fuck, Stiles can’t think at all -- muttered curses and gasps tumbling indiscriminately out of his lips and saying _Derek, Derek, Derek_ over and over again.

 

\---

 

“Look,” Derek says, sounding nervous again, “this was good -- great, actually -- but next time, I hope to, uh, actually get my pants completely off.” He lifts a leg to show Stiles his pants turned inside out and hooked on one foot.

“That’d be nice,” Stiles mumbles against his chest, running his hand over Derek’s stomach, the muscles jumping beneath his light touch, while Stiles grins at Derek’s casual use of next time.

So life isn’t what he thought it would be like at seventeen, Stiles reflects. It’s cool. He has a dorky best friend, a few people that he can reasonably count on, a great dad, and super-hot -- boyfriend? -- Derek. He has a super-hot Derek that wants, mystifyingly, to have sex with him again. 

He might die tomorrow, and they still haven’t figured out what kind of whacked-out druid wannabe might be offing virgins and soldiers, but at this exact moment he has about everything he could want, even a few things he couldn’t have imagined himself ever wanting.

Stiles slips his hand into Derek’s and feels Derek’s answering squeeze back, firm, steady, and incredibly present.

So this year -- whatever the hell happens, whatever sheer awfulness the future holds for him -- is shaping up to be pretty awesome.

 

 

The end.


End file.
